


Ray's Memory

by belmanoir



Category: due South
Genre: Amnesia, Fraser POV, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/pseuds/belmanoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray has lost his memory, and Fraser can't handle it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first Fraser POV fic!
> 
> Inspired by the following conversation with snoopypez: 
> 
> me: i would like to see the injury that would make ray forget fraser  
> snoopypez: oooo, there's another idea for you! WRITE IT. ;D we'd get to see how Fraser would take it!!  
> me: dude, fraser would lose all sense of identity  
> me: like, let's face it, he has NOTHING but ray  
> me: ray is the only person in chicago who would really notice if he disappeared off the face of the earth  
> me: DAMMIT NOW I WANT TO WRITE THIS  
> me: WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME??  
> snoopypez: ::beams:: because I win!
> 
> She does indeed. Beta'd by snoopypez and brynnmck, who are each insightful and encouraging in just the right proportions. Thanks guys!

[ _written on the blank pages of Robert Fraser's last diary._ ]

I have never kept a journal before. I hope this isn't the start of a habit; however, at this moment I need something to relieve my mind. I've always half-believed--self-indulgently, I suppose--that my father kept his journals with the thought that I would one day read them. Now I wonder if he simply had no one to talk to. For that is the situation in which I suddenly find myself. 

Normally, I indulge my compulsion towards sociability with my friend Ray. "My friend Ray"; it is curious how even when writing for no one but oneself (the only person I can ever imagine seeing these pages--and I hope he doesn't--is Ray himself, as it seems more and more unlikely I shall ever have children), the act of writing forces one to write as to an audience. As if Ray's name needed qualifying. 

I'm not, of course, as forthcoming with Ray as I plan to be in these pages. I've tried to be, once or twice. On occasion I've wanted desperately to be. I've never managed it. But even speaking to him about trivial matters, sharing my day-to-day life with him, eases my need to be seen, to be known. I suppose I could talk to Father Behan again; but I find myself reluctant to do so, as I've no doubt he knows all about the sordid and shameful outcome of my last confession. Besides, Ray would hardly thank me for discussing him with his own priest.

So. My friend--my best friend--Ray has met with an accident. That makes it sound far more tragic than it really is. It's what you say when someone dies. Ray is not dead; he's alive and well and I should be grateful--but my foolish, stubborn mind insists on behaving as if it were tragedy of the highest order.

Ray does not remember me.

We were chasing a witness, and--but how it happened hardly seems relevant, except that it was another case that I suspect Ray would have been just as happy not to investigate. Suffice it to say that he was following me up a fire escape and tripped and fell, hitting his head on the metal edge of a step. He seems well in everything but this: that he doesn't remember who he is. He doesn't remember me.

The same thing happened to me once, of course. It seems impossible that I should forget Ray. It seems incredible that his eyes, the long line of his throat, or his hand on my shoulder should ever fail to spark in me that jolt of recognition that goes deeper than skin, deeper than bone--deeper even, I think, than mind. But I did forget him, and some morbid part of me is afraid that this is my punishment.

Of course, I recovered (with Ray's help) quickly enough and with no lasting ill effects. But Ray has already been gone longer than I was; the doctors say the longer it takes, the less chance there is that he will recover his full memory. 

That first moment, when he looked at me without knowing me, was dreadful. I think I concealed from him _how_ dreadful, thank God. But when I had introduced myself, stammered an explanation--that he was a law enforcement officer and that we were partners and friends, and that he had met with an accident on a case--he said simply, "Okay. What do I call you?"

_Benny,_ I nearly told him. Thank God I thought better of it in time--I don't think I could have borne to hear the name with no affection behind it. "You call me by my surname," I said instead.

"Okay, Fraser," he said. I must have failed entirely to control my expression, because he stopped and said, "Is something wrong?"

I didn't know what to say. _You pronounced my name correctly and it's worse than if you'd shot me again_ was clearly out of the question. I had never corrected him, at first out of politeness and later out of other feelings, and I hadn't realized until that moment how very dear that voiced palatal fricative had grown to me. "Not at all," I said, and launched into an explanation of his life and personality that was more complimentary than the one he had given me of mine, but was, I am ashamed to say, significantly less revealing. The simple truth is that I was afraid. I was afraid that if I were more honest--that if I really allowed myself to describe Ray as I see him--this Ray, who is not blinded by familiarity, would see what I have managed to conceal from my friend. 

Finally the hospital agreed to release him, and I led him to his car.

"I drive this piece of shit?" he said.

"You love it," I told him.

He raised eloquent eyebrows.

"Do you remember how to drive?" I asked, hoping he would say _yes_. I am not a skilled driver at the best of times, and this was emphatically not the best of times.

"I think so," he said uncertainly. It developed that he was right. Indeed, he drove exactly as he usually does--and exactly as fast.

In that instant, with Ray careening around a corner and my hat on the dashboard, it seemed briefly as if everything were well. "Ray, the speed limit here is thirty-five miles per hour," I couldn't resist saying.

"Oh, sorry," he said, and slowed down. I think I came close to tears then--and again the next moment when I had to give him directions to the precinct. As with me, his workplace failed to provoke any memory whatsoever. I couldn't rid myself of the impression that Lieutenant Welsh suspected us of malingering, despite my explanation and the production of a note from the emergency room doctor who had attended Ray. However, he eventually gave us the day off, and I took Ray on the same frustrating and fruitless sort of tour he had given me: my apartment, his favorite restaurants, his mechanic's shop, &c. I even attempted to call his ex-wife, but the number he had for her in his black book had been disconnected.

At last the inevitable had to be faced. I took him home and explained what had happened to his mother. In a way it was a relief to have them recognize me--I had almost begun to fear that it was I who had lost my mind, and that Ray was truly _not_ my best friend of several years.

But after the initial balm, the visit was troubling. Ray did not respond to their fuss and shouting with his normal insouciant retorts. Instead, as I was leaving, he cast me a look filled with such naked pleading it tore at my heart--both because I hated to see Ray unhappy, and because if he were himself he would never have let me see his distress so plainly. Without his usual defense of sarcasm, he seemed curiously vulnerable. I _wanted_ to stay. For a mad moment I even wanted to shield him from his family, take him back to my apartment with me...but they are his family. He loves them, he values them above all else. They have known him from the moment he was born, and if they--and that house--can't restore his memory, nothing will.

As I was leaving, I quite thoughtlessly put my hand on his arm. He stiffened instinctively. His apology was immediate and sincere; I hope my reassurances were equally so. I shouldn't have taken it personally--no one knows that better than I. 

At least I managed not to pull back as if I had been burnt. But I _felt_ as if I'd been burnt. The casual physical affection that Ray and I share--I can't do without it. 

Enough self-pity; I'll be of no use to anyone, least of all Ray, if I don't sleep. 

###

I'm afraid that I am falling apart.

I ought to have called in sick today and spent the day with Ray--a morning phone-call to his mother from Mr. Mustafi's phone assured me that he had not regained his memory overnight--but my shift ends early in the afternoon anyway, and Mrs. Vecchio had planned a long morning of feeding Ray his favorite foods in the hopes of jogging his memory, so it seemed I was not needed.

My entire morning was spent in an agony of agitated concern, but it was in the last minutes of my shift that the truth of my position struck me. I realized--that is, I already knew, but it somehow became real to me that Ray was not coming to pick me up. Because he didn't remember that he always came to pick me up; because even if someone told him, he wouldn't know how to find the consulate; because _he does not know me_.

When my shift was over I began to walk aimlessly through Chicago until I ended, finally, here: on a park bench, surrounded by what the city calls nature.

I feel as if I do not exist. For years now, there has been no one alive who really knows me, except Ray. Perhaps there never was. And now that he doesn't know me, I wonder if I am really alive, if I'm really here. If I were to vanish at this moment, who would care? Many would notice: my landlord, my neighbors, my colleagues, perhaps even Ray's fellow officers at the precinct. But no one would _look_ for me. No one would have anything to say about me that couldn't have been deduced from my photograph by a total stranger. 

Without Ray, I'm not merely incomplete; I am no one.

###

Of course that moment, when I was at my lowest and most maudlin, was the moment my father chose to appear.

"Moping around on a park bench while your friend is in need," he said with a snort. "I expected better of you, son."

"Ray is with his family," I said.

He snorted again. "When you had amnesia, I don't remember him abandoning _you_! And you were quite a jackass to him, too, without your grandmother's training."

As always when I'm with my father, I reverted instantly to an angry fifteen-year-old. I ignored his slurs on my personality, which were all too accurate, and demanded, "Who would he have left me with, Dad? You? You're _dead_ , remember?"

"Not the point," he said. "He brought you back. Stands to reason you ought to do the same for him."

"I don't know _how_!" I burst out in a paroxysm of frustrated misery. 

"How did _he_ do it?" my father asked.

I told Ray I didn't remember: one of the many lies I tell him that he thinks me incapable of. I remember perfectly. "He told me why we were friends," I said. I found I couldn't say more than that to my father, even though of course he already knew. The words are too intimate, too close to my heart. 

My father raised his brows expectantly.

"There is no reason to suppose that would work on Ray!" I said, knowing as I said it that it was fear and not logic that held me back. "I--Ray is--extremely important to me."

He didn't say anything, merely looked at me with the expression of mingled sarcasm and disappointment that has never failed to fill me with shame and resentment. 

I tried to think about Ray, instead. Why had his declaration restored me to myself? Because it had finally reminded me of--what? Was _reminding_ what I had needed? I didn't think so. Everything he did remind me of--my dreary apartment, my half-wild pet (as I saw him), my work at the Consulate, my relentless and unappealing politeness-- _Victoria_ , for Heaven's sake--had convinced me more and more that I didn't _want_ to be myself. It was only when Ray--who, for all his openness and volatility, seldom really reveals himself--showed me what we shared, what he felt, and that he wholeheartedly wanted me back, that I _allowed_ myself to remember.

"Dad, that's it--" I started to say, but he was gone.

I don't need to jog Ray's memory at all. I need to show him that he has something to come back to. I don't know if what I have to offer is what he wants--what he sees missing when he looks at his life with a stranger's eyes--but I would be an even poorer friend than I have been if I didn't make the attempt. 

I dread it. I have no reason to suppose that a rejection from a Ray who does not know me will be any easier than the rejection from my friend that has terrified me all these years. But I look forward to it, too, with an eagerness that surprises me. And if it helps restore him, I will be amply repaid for ending my long cowardice.

I'm going to tell him. I'm going to tell him that however he chooses to interpret it, and whether or not he admits to remembering it later, the truth--my deepest truth--is that I love him. 

All the things my father never told me, never knew how to tell me, are in these journals. When I'm gone, I want my thoughts to rest in Ray's memory.

[ _The rest of the book is blank._ ]


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray regains his memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this since people didn't seem confident that Part One was a happy ending. Beta'd by china_shop. Thank you for helping me knock this into shape!

"I love you," Fraser said.

Ray stared at him, trying to remember what Fraser had said before that. How the hell had he managed to space out during what was--if the taut, unhappy look on Benny's face was anything to go by--a really important conversation? He didn't even remember how he'd got to Fraser's apartment.

"I love you too, Benny," he said hastily. Ray'd been in enough relationships to know that could cover a hell of a lot of sins.

Fraser's face lit up like Christmas. "Ray!"

It was as if his brain was a fuzzy TV, and Fraser saying his name was a whack on the side of his head. He still couldn't remember what they'd been talking about, but everything before that snapped back into focus, and---wait a second, he and Fraser weren't in a relationship! "What the hell did you just say, Benny?" He replayed the last few seconds again. "What the hell did _I_ just say?" 

Fraser's happy eyes turned watchful, and his hands, which were clasped on top of the table, tightened on each other. Ray tried even harder to remember the beginning of their conversation. The last day and a half was starting to come back to him now, in dribs and drabs--he'd lost his memory, just like Benny that one time. Jeez, it was gonna be Dief next. Ray wasn't sure how they'd be able to tell, but Benny would know. And if he had to chauffeur the two of them around the city while Fraser said crap like _And this is where you had your first donut, Diefenbaker. Perhaps you'll remember how often I've spoken to you about the effects of refined sugar on a wolf's metabolism,_ he was gonna--

"I told you how I felt about you," Fraser said in his most determinedly calm voice, and the last five minutes were suddenly there, crystal clear. 

_However you choose to interpret it, and whether or not you choose to admit to remembering it later, the truth--my deepest truth--is that I love you._

Could he really have that right? Or was his brain still playing tricks on him? "Fraser," he said at last, cautiously, "when you said 'however I choose to interpret it,' did you mean...?"

Fraser leaned forward in his chair, his clasped hands sliding towards Ray. "Yes."

Hope fizzed up in Ray's chest like Coke in a shaken bottle, but suddenly he was pissed, too. "Real helpful," he said. "So I'm guessing this means you remember what happened when you had amnesia, huh?"

Fraser flushed. "Yes, Ray." 

"Jesus, Fraser! I told you that alone, we're incomplete! I told you you looked good in your uniform! Did this seem _ambiguous_ to you? Because I thought it was the fruitiest stuff I'd ever said in my life, and then you made me think I was gonna have to work up the nerve to say it all over again! What were you waiting for, a proclamation from the Queen?"

Fraser didn't say anything. God, he looked like shit. How had Ray not noticed? But he guessed if he didn't know Benny's face like the back of his hand, he wouldn't be able to tell. Which was exactly what had happened. 

Ray'd spent pretty much the entire time he'd lost his memory--when he wasn't freaking out --trying to figure out what the hell was going on between him and the Mountie. Were they involved, or what? It'd taken him about five seconds to realize that he had a thing for the guy, but he hadn't been able to read Fraser at all. About anything. 

This was weird, remembering not remembering. He hadn't known Fraser anymore, he hadn't known what tells to look for, so he hadn't noticed any of the right things and even now he couldn't piece together how Fraser had reacted to his amnesia. Although there was one thing--

"Fraser, how come when I said your name that first time you looked at me like I'd punched you in the face?" He narrowed his eyes and watched Fraser closely, trying to make up for lost time. The guy still looked relieved, but he looked wiped out, too. Tired, pale, and hungry, in a way that made Ray want to sit him down and force-feed him lasagna. Which was ridiculous, because Ray's brush with amnesia could not possibly have cost Benny more than one night's sleep and maybe a skipped dinner. 

But what was plain as day was that Fraser didn't want to talk about it. "Let me make you some tea," he said, standing up and going to the stove so Ray couldn't see his face. "Mrs. Chen in apartment 507 gave it to me; it's supposed to be good for the memory."

"I don't drink tea," Ray said, exasperated. "You know that."

"You drink tea at Chinese restaurants, Ray," Fraser pointed out, filling the kettle and ignoring Ray's opinion like he always did. "And this is Chinese tea. In fact, it's very similar to--"

"Fraser, I don't care about the tea! Tell me what I did."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Ray." Fraser measured out the loose tea into some special Canadian tea-making gadget. Was Ray imagining it, or were his hands shaking? "Are you certain you're remembering correctly? When I had my own bout of amnesia, for months afterwards I remained convinced that I'd been talking to my father's ghost. Which I'm sure you'll agree is extremely unlikely, and--"

Ray stood up and went to lean against the counter, so he could see Fraser's face again. "Fraser," he said warningly. 

Fraser must have really been thrown off his game by the last day and a half, because he actually stopped, setting the tea mug gently down and then setting his hands lightly on the counter to either side of it. Maybe the shaking wasn't Ray's imagination after all. "I'd rather not say, Ray."

"Yeah, I know that, Benny." Turning towards Fraser, Ray slouched farther down and leaned on the counter, sliding his arm forward until his fingertips were half an inch from Fraser's hand. Just letting him know the physical comfort option was open if Fraser wanted it. "Tell me anyway," he said.

To his amazement, that worked. Fraser looked at their hands, and then at Ray. His mouth did this funny, soft little twist, and he nodded. "You--well, you mispronounce my name. It's not 'Frasier,' it's 'Fraser.' And that time you pronounced it correctly."

If ears could blink, Ray's would have. "Wait, what's the difference?"

Fraser repeated himself. Oh. Shit.

"I been saying your name wrong for four years?" He pushed off the counter, throwing his hands in the air. "Jesus, Fraser--I mean, 'Fraser'--oh, hell! Why didn't you _tell_ me? There's polite and then there's masochistic, and you--"

Fraser laughed, a note of hysteria in the sound. "I don't want you to stop," he said, and then he started crying. 

Fraser was crying. 

He didn't cover his face or make embarrassing noises like a normal person. No, he tucked his head down and folded his arms, and didn't make a sound except for his shuddering breaths. Like maybe he didn't expect anyone to look close enough to notice. 

It wasn't like it was the first time Ray'd seen one of his friends cry. And everyone knew when your friend cried, even if it was at his mother's funeral, you kinda looked the other way and waited for him to stop, and then you acted like it hadn't happened. Girls thought it was some dumb macho thing, but it wasn't. That was how you supported your friends. You let them pretend to be strong.

Fraser did way too much pretending to be strong, and Ray couldn't have looked away if he'd tried. Not when he'd pushed and pulled and done everything but beg for Fraser to even admit he _had_ feelings, and now Fraser had actually _lost control of his face_. And if Benny's face was expressive when he was doing Perfect Impassive Mountie, when he was crying it was a whole damn novel, one of the long Russian ones Ray had never bothered to get all the way through in English class. It got right inside Ray and made him want to make Fraser feel better more than he'd ever wanted _anything_. "Hey," he said, putting an arm around Fraser's shaking shoulders and squeezing. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay, I promise. I--uh, I'll keep mispronouncing your name?"

Fraser turned under Ray's arm so he was hiding his face in Ray's shoulder, his hands coming up to grip Ray's jacket awkwardly. "I'm very sorry, Ray," he said, clearly still trying to talk in his regular Mountie voice, which Ray hoped he'd gotten the extended warranty on because it sounded _broken_. "Your absence was--that is, relief seems to have made me lightheaded, and I--"

"Fraser, you don't gotta be sorry," Ray tried to explain. "People cry. I mean, maybe _you_ don't, but other people--"

"I cry," Fraser said. "But I generally try to do it when no one will be--when I won't--"

"When you won't what? Inconvenience anyone?" Ray demanded. "Jesus, Benny." He wrapped his other arm tight around Fraser too. He didn't have the nerve to kiss the top of Fraser's head, but he did tilt his head so that his mouth and chin were buried in Fraser's hair. "People like to be inconvenienced," he murmured to Fraser's scalp. "People like to feel needed. How do you not know that?"

Fraser sniffled. "Well, I suppose I do know it intellectually," he said, his voice sounding a little steadier. "Why do you think I've borrowed so much money from you over the years?"

Ray's eyebrows shot up. "Are you saying that making me the official sponsor of every charity case in Chicago was your wacky Canadian way of flirting with me?"

"Maybe," Fraser said, his damp smile curving against Ray's neck. "Nevertheless, when it comes to heavier burdens, I--" He sighed.

"Yeah, I know," Ray said. "You still think if you can't light the fire you're gonna get left in the woods." Ray really didn't like Fraser's dad. Sure, all little kids were afraid of being left alone in the dark. But for most kids, _the dark_ just meant their bedroom. For Benny it meant the entire Canadian wilderness.

Fraser stilled. "Perhaps," he said, sounding startled. 

"I ain't gonna leave you, Benny," Ray said. "How do you not know that by now? I ever once turn my back on you, no matter what you did to make me?"

"No, Ray," Fraser said, and stepped back. His face was flushed and streaked with snot and tears, and his eyes were red and swollen.

"You missed me that much, huh?" Ray could feel himself grinning. Yeah, he was a terrible friend. 

"I think I ruined your suit," Fraser said, like he figured that could distract Ray from pretty much anything.

Ray twisted his head around to look. He sighed. He'd seen his nieces and nephews bawl on enough clothes to know that salt didn't come out of silk. "I'm used to it," he said. "Wipe your nose so I can kiss you."

Fraser started to smile. "Actually, Ray, the Inuit believe that what they call--well, 'salty kisses' would be the closest translation--are a sign of good luck. Of course, salt is a far more precious substance in the Arctic than it is in Chicago--" He was pulling out that tablecloth-sized handkerchief of his, but suddenly Ray couldn't wait that long.

"Salty kisses, huh?" he said, and tugged Fraser to him by his Sam Browne belt. Fraser made a little noise of surprise, like _mmpf_ and _ohhh_ combined, and then his hands were pulling Ray tight against him and his tongue was conducting a full-scale investigation of Ray's mouth. And yeah, the snot factor was a little gross, but considering the number of times he'd had to talk himself down from planting one on Fraser after he'd just licked something way more disgusting, Ray sure as hell wasn't complaining.

It wasn't the first time he'd had his hands on Fraser's arms, or his back, or his shoulders, or even his chest. They were always touching, because Ray couldn't help himself--and maybe, he realized now, Fraser couldn't either. But somehow it was completely different to feel Fraser under his hands now, to know that Fraser _wanted_ his hands there, that the heat and the tension he felt was for _him_. To know that he didn't have to hide his shaky breathing and Fraser could let his pulse spiral out of control--God, if they were hooked up to a bomb right now they'd be _screwed_. 

And it was completely different, too, when Fraser spread his big Canadian hands across Ray's shoulder blades and just left them there, like all he wanted was to _hold_ Ray--but when Ray sucked on his tongue Fraser groaned and pressed harder. That row of shiny brass buttons dug into Ray's chest, which was exactly as annoying and erotic as Ray had always thought it would be-- 

Fraser's kettle started up the most earsplitting whistle Ray had ever heard. They both jumped, breaking the kiss. 

"Sorry, Ray," Fraser said breathlessly, moving the kettle off the heat. "Tea?"

The sudden loss of contact left Ray feeling shy and out of his depth. "No thanks," he said. Then he thought of something. "Fraser, isn't the Arctic kind of by an ocean?"

"Yes, Ray?" Fraser said, raising his eyebrows. "The Arctic Ocean, and then there's the Beaufort Sea, of course. Although technically I suppose that is considered part of--"

"So salt would kind of not be hard to come by."

Fraser's eyes widened. "Er..."

"You made that Inuit story up!" Ray said, poking Fraser in the chest. "I bet you make 'em all up! You're a terrible Mountie!"

Fraser pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. "Well, not all of them, Ray."

Ray laughed. "I'm glad you finally decided to be honest with me." His grin faded. "So...exactly how honest were you planning on getting tonight?" He walked his fingers up Fraser's chest to the neck of his tunic, and tugged a little.

Fraser swallowed, his throat moving under Ray's fingers. "I hope that complete mutual honesty will be the hallmark of all our future relations, Ray." He hooked his hand over Ray's and pulled open the Velcro of his collar. 

For a second Ray thought he'd lost his memory again. It wasn't like he could even see one inch of Fraser he couldn't before--the strip of Velcro was too long and the button under it was too high--but there was nothing left in his brain except that little _shrip_ sound and _Fraser said I could take his clothes off._

"I gotta be honest with you, Fraser," Ray said, thumbing open his own top button and watching Fraser's gaze sharpen to a knifepoint. "You have come up with some really dumb plans while we've been partners. But I think this one makes up for all of them."


End file.
